


Patent

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Coming to Understanding [2]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "But a direct approach would have shown Izaya's hand, something he avoids with the unthinking ease of nearly a decade of practice, and so he makes his way to Shizuo’s city instead of Shizuo’s home, and he waits to be found." Izaya has expectations for his birthday celebration, which Shizuo fulfills belatedly and with interest.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya
Series: Coming to Understanding [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757185
Comments: 36
Kudos: 205





	Patent

The sun is setting by the time Izaya gets to Shizuo’s apartment.

It didn’t have to take him all day. He knows where Shizuo lives and it’s not as if it’s any great feat to travel the distance from Shinjuku to Ikebukuro; he’s made the trip on a near-daily basis in the years since Shizuo’s temper forced a token removal of Izaya’s base of operations to the more distant district. He could have been waiting on Shizuo’s doorstep with the rising of the sun instead of the falling of it, could have had the flash of a smile and the edge of a blade ready upon the first indication of the other’s rising. But a direct approach would have shown his hand, something he avoids with the unthinking ease of nearly a decade of practice, and so Izaya makes his way to Shizuo’s city instead of Shizuo’s home, and he waits to be found.

He ought to manage this before midday, by all rights. Izaya has an excess of experience with Shizuo’s inhuman ability to track him across a city with improbable accuracy; sometimes he has barely taken a step into Ikebukuro before the roar of his name echoes a promise off the surrounding buildings. But there is no sign of Shizuo through the morning, or into the afternoon, as Izaya wanders himself deeper into the heart of Ikebukuro with a growing sense of safety that fixes his mouth on a frown instead of sharpening it to a smile. By the time the sky is deepening from clear springtime blue to the spreading gold of evening Izaya is on an overpass in the middle of the city, standing in clear view of no less than three of the main streets while he waits with fading anticipation for a shout that never comes. He stands there a half hour, answering phone calls and pretending to take others when he runs out of plausible reasons to remain where he is as the sun sinks towards the horizon. Finally, when the sky is aflame with crimson and Izaya’s ears are ringing with the purr of constant traffic passing beneath him, he closes his phone with a sharp  _ snap _ and turns to head directly into the inexplicably sleeping lion’s den.

Izaya doesn’t bother with a coy approach. He could and has, in the past, making using of the laughable security at Shizuo’s apartment complex to let himself in through the window or the front door, sometimes with Shizuo’s knowledge and a few times without. But there’s a knot at the inside of his chest, a hollow weight in his stomach that grows with every passing second, and the disappointment in him is increasingly convinced that Shizuo is entirely absent, that even his home will be as silent and stripped of his presence as the city has been. Izaya can’t find the motivation for an elaborate break-in when some part of him is sure he’ll receive nothing but failure in response, so he takes an atypically direct approach and simply walks up to the front door of Shizuo’s apartment with no effort to disguise or hide himself. Shizuo  _ must _ be gone, there is no conceivable way he has simply allowed Izaya to wander the city unmolested for a full day, and when Izaya raps hard against the apartment door he does so with disappointment already sinking bitter in his chest. There will be no response, he is certain of it, Shizuo is simply out of the city; and then there’s the sound of heavy footsteps, so starkly opposed to Izaya’s expectations that he is still staring shock at the door when it comes open, and Shizuo is there.

They stare at each other for a moment. Izaya is aware that he ought to be retreating, as some well-learned instinct in him informs him that he’s well within range of Shizuo’s crushing grip and that it’s only the surprise of seeing him that is holding back the growl of rage that is sure to follow his appearance here. But Shizuo is standing barefoot in his entryway, dressed in his usual slacks but with his white shirt unbuttoned at cuffs and collar, and as Izaya stares shock at him Shizuo’s only motion is to lift the cigarette in his hand to his mouth so he can draw a breath from it before speaking. “Izaya-kun.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, his mouth acting on the autopilot that his body has evidently abandoned. The lilting nickname shakes him free of some of his shock, at least enough for him to muster the twist of a smile against his lips and a weak huff of a laugh. “So you  _ are _ alive after all.”

Shizuo’s brows crease together. With his hand lifted to cover his mouth Izaya can almost take the expression for the start of the temper he has been trying to draw down on himself for the whole of the day. “Yeah,” Shizuo says, and drops his hand to his side again as he blows a cloud of smoke into the air between them. “Why wouldn’t I be  _ alive_?”

Izaya digs his hands into his pockets so he can draw his coat tight over the pointed shrug he offers. “No reason,” he drawls. “I just didn’t see you around today. It’s rare for you to let me play in your city without showing up to ruin my fun. Have I gotten better at throwing you off my trail after all?”

Even this doesn’t spark the scowling anger that Izaya is angling for. Shizuo just huffs in the back of his throat as he ducks his head to look at his fingers bracing at his cigarette. “I knew you were in Ikebukuro, Izaya.”

Izaya can hear the brittle edge on his voice when he forces laughter past the tension in his throat. “And you decided to give me the benefit of the doubt? That’s astonishingly out-of-character, are you sure you’re feeling well? Not showing signs of humanity at this late stage, I hope.”

Shizuo’s forehead tightens on the first trace of the scowl Izaya has been needling for. “Are you seriously complaining about the lack of death threats in your day?”

“Of course not,” Izaya informs him. “I have  _ plenty _ of other people who want me dead, it’s not like you’re the only one intent on murdering me on sight.” He pauses for a deliberate, delicate moment before tipping his head to the side and shrugging again. “You might be the loudest, though.”

Shizuo huffs a breath. It’s not the anger Izaya is looking for by even his flexible standards, but it’s a reaction, at least, which is enough to ease some of the aching pressure in Izaya’s chest even before Shizuo steps to the side and pulls the door wider by a handful of inches. He takes another drag from his cigarette before lifting his hand to gesture. “D’you want to come in?”

Izaya affects a show of shock, opening his eyes wide and lifting a hand to press to his chest. “Oh, Shizu-chan,” he purrs. “You must have been studying, that was almost  _ polite_.” Shizuo frowns at him and Izaya flashes a grin in his direction before coming forward with ready speed to take the invitation before Shizuo can retract it. He catches his fingers around the edge of the door and slides a foot into the space between the frame and the door itself, but even as he slips inside Shizuo makes no effort to close him out. He just goes on standing to the side of the entryway, one hand holding his cigarette and the other lingering on the doorhandle.

Shizuo pushes the door shut in Izaya’s wake, closing out the spreading illumination of the setting sun and dropping them both into the increasing darkness of an unlit apartment. It’s still bright enough for Izaya to see Shizuo standing before him on the other side of the entryway, but the shadows disguise some of the strangeness of his expression, casting him into the familiar outline of bad temper and startling violence instead of the odd subtleties that the sunlight seemed to suggest behind the color of his uncovered eyes. It’s a relief, though Izaya refuses to think of it that way, and in the greater darkness of the apartment he can draw a smirk onto his lips and take the deliberate risk to reach out and pluck Shizuo’s cigarette from his fingers as the other raises it towards his mouth once more.

“You really should quit,” Izaya informs him, with the most condescending tone he can find. He drops the cigarette to the tile of the entryway and catches the toe of his shoe against the ember without looking as he crushes it out. “You’re outgrowing this whole delinquent look, you know. You might have had  _ some _ appeal in high school but you’re never going to find a good woman to take you if you insist on clinging to an outdated style.”

Shizuo scoffs in the back of his throat. The hallway is narrow enough that Izaya can feel the shift of the air with the sound ghost against his hair and brush along the side of his neck. “You care that much about my romantic prospects?”

“Of course not,” Izaya says with ready speed. “I don’t take on lost causes on principle. But we  _ were _ classmates, and if I must be associated with you I’d prefer if you at least maintain some base level of style.”

“‘Associated,’” Shizuo echoes, and shifts his weight over his feet. It’s not that he has taken a step forward, not that he has so much as lifted a hand to cross the distance between them, but the straightening of his shoulders seems to bring him more into focus, seems to electrify the air even as Izaya draws breath so he can taste lightning at his lips, a stormcloud weight to match the bitter smoke of the cigarette now crushed to ash beneath his shoe. “Is that what we are?”

“That’s my suggestion,” Izaya says, not moving his feet, not so much as rocking back onto his heels as Shizuo takes a half-step closer to cover the minimal distance between them. From this near Shizuo’s advantage of height is unavoidable but Izaya just lifts his chin to go on holding the dark of Shizuo’s gaze as the other draws close enough for Izaya’s coat to brush Shizuo’s loose shirtfront. Izaya’s shoulders are tense, his knees are braced, his fingers are trembling; anticipation is building in every part of him, his whole existence poised to bolt in one of the two directions this interlude might go. Shizuo looks relaxed, his shoulders loose and his hands slack, but Izaya feels his attention closing in on the line between Shizuo’s eyebrows, the curve of his mouth, the dark of his eyes, as self-preservation makes a desperate bid to stay ahead of the leading edge of the other’s temper. Shizuo is watching Izaya, his gaze heavy against the other’s features as he takes a breath, as his shoulder shifts, and Izaya stays still, not flinching and not reacting as Shizuo’s still-relaxed hand draws up across the distance between them. He lowers his lashes into the show of a blink, dips the shape of his mouth towards a bow of amusement. “Why, Shizu-chan, what would  _ you _ call us?”

Shizuo makes a sound in the farthest reaches of his throat, something raw and growling in acknowledgment of Izaya’s needling taunt; but his open palm is fitting against Izaya’s hair, and Izaya takes the moment to lift his chin and angle his head to cast himself deliberately out of balance and into the invitation he wishes to make. For a moment there is tension, the straining ache of instinctive protest to baring his throat to such danger, leaving himself so unguarded in the face of such a threat; and then Shizuo’s thumb slides in to cradle behind Izaya’s ear, and Shizuo bows his head over Izaya’s neck, and as the heat of Shizuo’s mouth finds his jawline Izaya shuts his eyes and smiles into the dark as he lifts a hand to curl his fingers into a fist of Shizuo’s hair.

There is no question, after that. There is some delay, certainly, as Izaya meets Shizuo’s unwarranted gentleness with a pull at his scalp, and a bruising clutch at his shoulder, and a directly seductive arch of his back, but Shizuo is at his core a creature of instinct, and Izaya knows how to fit himself to the precise shape of the other’s rising arousal. When Shizuo kisses up the line of his throat Izaya turns his head to meet the soft of Shizuo’s lips with the open-mouthed invitation of his own; when Shizuo’s hand touches to the dip of Izaya’s waist Izaya angles his knee between Shizuo’s thighs and rocks up to grind against the front of the other’s slacks. That gets him another growl, this one hot and humid-dark against the urging of his tongue, and when Shizuo steps in to crush him back to the wall Izaya goes with no more protest than an exhale that he gusts into a moan as his shoulders hit the wall and Shizuo presses to his chest. Izaya is hooking his leg around Shizuo’s hip well before Shizuo’s hand has dropped to clutch fingerprints against his thigh, is sucking encouragement against Shizuo’s tongue as soon as the other moves to taste against the inside of his mouth, and when Shizuo lets Izaya’s head go to push up under his shirt Izaya is already arching into his touch, breathless with the heat that has utterly eclipsed the chill disappointment he has been accumulating through the day.

“I can’t believe you let me wander around the city all  _ day _ without chasing me down,” Izaya pants, tilting his head back to offer the words to the ceiling of the hallway as Shizuo’s mouth finds his pulse and Shizuo’s palm seeks out the rhythm of his heartbeat. “I thought you might be going soft.” Izaya tightens his leg around Shizuo’s hip to rock himself forward and grind against the gratifying resistance straining the front of Shizuo’s slacks. Shizuo groans into the curve of his shoulder, his hand spasms at Izaya’s leg, and Izaya grins into the shadows. “ _That _ doesn’t seem to be a problem, at least.”

Shizuo pushes Izaya’s shirt farther up his chest, his palm sliding over Izaya’s skin like he’s trying to fit his fingerprints against the whole of the other’s body. “Are you seriously complaining that I didn’t try to  _ kill _ you today?”

“I’m complaining that I had to come  _ find _ you,” Izaya tells him. “I thought you’d be fucking me up against some alley wall before noon instead of edging me for  _ hours_.”

Shizuo scoffs against his neck. “Only you would complain about  _ not _ having sex in an  _ alley_.”

“It’s a better alternative than no sex at  _ all_,” Izaya says with perfect certainty. He wraps his fingers farther into Shizuo’s hair and drags with perfunctory force, which effort only results in Shizuo huffing token protest and rocking up harder against him. “Now that we’re inside, can I prevail upon your delicate sensibilities to actually  _ fuck _ me?”

Shizuo groans. “You’re impossible,” he says, which isn’t an answer, but he’s sliding his hand from Izaya’s chest to loop around his waist, which is a lot closer to one and only becomes more so when he pulls Izaya in against him and off his feet entirely. Izaya already has both his arms looped around Shizuo’s neck; all he needs to do is get his other leg up and around Shizuo’s waist to brace them together, and even that is probably unnecessary judging from the ease with which Shizuo turns to carry him down the hallway and to the bedroom.

Shizuo drops Izaya on the bed, which is acceptable, and then gets back up himself to turn on the light, which is less so. Izaya takes advantage of the moment to shrug his coat off over the sheets behind him, and to kick his shoes free of his feet and onto the floor as Shizuo is unfastening his belt with a presumption that Izaya would tease him for if he weren’t so anxious to remove whatever clothing still remains between the flush of his skin and the radiant heat of Shizuo’s. Izaya falls back to the bed so he can wiggle out of his pants more rapidly, and then pushes back up to strip his shirt free, and it’s while he’s caught in the dark of the fabric that the bed shifts beneath him and a hand fits against the flex of his breathing in his chest. Shizuo’s fingers find the curve of his ribs, his palm slides across to cradle Izaya with the implicit danger of tempered strength, and Izaya tugs his shirt off his head to favor Shizuo with the shadowed heat of a smirk as he tosses the clothing to the floor.

“You’ll have to do the prep yourself this time,” he informs Shizuo as he angles his knees into invitation and reaches out to curl both hands around the back of the other’s neck, under the loosened collar of his shirt. “I hope you still remember how.”

Shizuo’s mouth flickers on not-quite-a-smile. “I think I can figure it out,” he says, and ducks his head to reach along the side of the bed. “Were you less sure of yourself today?”

“I was  _ extremely _ sure of myself,” Izaya says, a little too quickly, but Shizuo is still retrieving the lube and doesn’t seem to notice the quiver of speed on Izaya’s voice. Izaya presses his lips together and pushes himself through a deliberate breath to steady himself before he continues. “Like I said, if you had found me this morning like you usually do you could have taken advantage of my efforts. It’s your own fault for leaving me to my own devices all day and now you’ll just have to pay the price.”

Shizuo snorts without looking up from the bottle in his hand as he spills liquid across his palm with easy familiarity. “Yeah, god forbid I should have to actually open you up before I fuck you.”

“Maybe you hate it,” Izaya says, offering back sugar-sweet in reply to Shizuo’s sarcasm. “I wouldn’t know, I’m always the one doing all the work to get myself ready.”

“Because you’re already  _ waiting _ for me,” Shizuo says, punctuating by tossing the bottle over the edge of the bed with a flicker of his more usual temper behind the action. Izaya looks to Shizuo’s face, trying to seek out some glimpse of the other’s expression, but Shizuo has his head ducked forward, and his hair is falling loose in front of his eyes, and Izaya can’t get a read on him. His touch is gentle enough when he presses his hand to Izaya’s stomach and draws down to fit his fingers beneath the other’s waistband, at least, and Izaya sets a heel at the bed to brace himself so he can lift his hips to ease Shizuo’s efforts to strip the last of his clothes off. 

Shizuo pulls Izaya’s briefs off his hips and halfway up his thighs before returning his hold to Izaya’s hip to weight the other back down to the bed as he leans in over him. Izaya doesn’t protest this force, just drops to the mattress and brings his knees up towards his chest to encourage Shizuo’s efforts. Shizuo reaches out for him, his touch slick-smooth as it lands against Izaya’s skin, and Izaya shudders with pleasant anticipation as Shizuo’s fingers slide up to press wet against his entrance. “You never give me a chance.”

“Why Shizu-chan,” Izaya drawls. “I had no idea you were so into the  _ process_. If you wanted to spend an hour working me open all you had to do was ask.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Shizuo says.

Izaya rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ ,” he says. “How much more consent do you want, Shizu-chan? Put your fingers—” and then Shizuo pushes, the force of his touch sliding suddenly deep, and Izaya loses his breath to a groan as reflex tightens his body in helpless appreciation of the friction. “ _Oh_.”

Shizuo breathes over an exhale. “That’s what I wanted,” he said, with little context and less coherency, but he’s moving his hand immediately and Izaya doesn’t have the attention to spare to press him for more clarity. Shizuo’s going fast, urging up with the full length of his finger almost as soon as he is pressed inside, but the sensation of it is sparking up Izaya’s spine and flexing in his thighs with both the realtime friction and the expectation of more, and Izaya can hear his own breath gasping into time with the stroke of Shizuo working him open.

“Fuck,” Izaya says, blinking in a vague effort to retrieve his attention back to his vision instead of clinging to each thrust of Shizuo’s finger sliding into him. “Shizu-chan, you—” and Shizuo twists his hand, curling his finger to urge friction within Izaya’s body, and Izaya’s hips jerk in time with the flex of heat jolting at his cock. “ _Ah_.”

“Izaya,” Shizuo says. His voice sounds strange to Izaya’s ears, though that could just be the echo of heat ringing through Izaya’s body and eclipsing his awareness of anything beyond the steady thrust pumping into him. Izaya blinks in a bid to retrieve some of his vision from hazy distraction; when he brings himself back into focus he finds Shizuo watching him, his forehead creased and mouth set but eyes dark with intent rather than the anger that usually follows such focus. The back of Izaya’s neck prickles with self-consciousness, shivering with a premonition of some kind of threat he can’t fit a name to, and then Shizuo slides his hand back to offer the press of a second finger, and Izaya’s vague intuition melts to immediate want as he reaches to grab against Shizuo’s bracing wrist. His hold is too tight, his fingernails dig in sharply against the loose fall of Shizuo’s sleeve over his arm, but Shizuo is pushing forward without pause or protest and Izaya groans and lets his head fall back to the sheets behind him as the desperate clutch of his fingers loosens before the strain of Shizuo pushing up and into him.

Shizuo knows what he’s doing. Izaya has no idea where his experience comes from; the idea of Shizuo having another partner is one he disregards as soon as it arises, before it can knot a shadow of discontent behind his ribs, but Izaya has taken the lead on preparation as soon as he realized there was a persistent possibility of their fights resulting in pleasure instead of pain. Perhaps it’s just another example of the uncanny intuition Shizuo sometimes displays, now turned to a far better use than the irritating perception it usually is, because he’s moving as if Izaya’s half-formed desires are commands to guide the turn of his wrist and the thrust of his fingers. He’s going fast, without any of the tentative concern Izaya might have expected, and if the force of his hand would be too much in another situation long hours of building impatience have left Izaya carrying a dull ache of want in him that craves nothing as much as the sharp, sudden strain of Shizuo’s fingers driving into him. Izaya sags back over the bed, the strain loosening from his shoulders and unravelling from his thighs, and when his hand tightens around Shizuo’s wrist it’s for the comfort of contact instead of the demand it was. The pressure of anxiety is gone, stripped away by the heat of Shizuo’s mouth and the immediate reality of his touch, and in its place there is the rising pressure of desire coiling to a knot around the slide and stroke of Shizuo’s fingers.

Izaya doesn’t realize he’s lost track of his surroundings until there is a break in the rhythm Shizuo has been setting over and into him. When he blinks back into himself he finds Shizuo leaning over him, his gaze still fixed on Izaya’s face with that strange intensity that came with the press of his second finger. Izaya feels a flicker of vertigo, something that doesn’t quite manage to coalesce to panic against the heat trembling through him, as he wonders if Shizuo has been watching him all this time, has been seeing the involuntary shivers of pleasure chase the movement of his touch pressing into the other. It’s only for a moment, just a heartbeat of uncertainty; then Izaya’s baring a grin, flashing his teeth like he’s brandishing a blade as he lifts his hand from the sheets and reaches to flatten his palm against the front of Shizuo’s boxers.

“What’s the matter, Shizu-chan? Forgot what to do next?” Izaya turns his wrist to cradle the shape of Shizuo’s cock through his underwear and slide his thumb up to work against the hot swell of the head. Shizuo’s jaw flexes as a groan draws up his throat and his hips cant forward to thrust up into the cup of Izaya’s palm. Izaya grins and presses harder as he strokes up along Shizuo’s shaft. “ _This _ remembers, I bet.”

Shizuo huffs. “Shut up, Izaya” but he’s rocking forward, his body falling into a rhythm against Izaya’s palm that is a suggestion all in itself. Izaya feels his balls tighten, feels himself flex around the breadth of Shizuo’s fingers inside him, and he slides his palm up and away to remove the possibility of friction as Shizuo grinds himself against it.

“There are better things for you to do with that,” Izaya says, and ducks his chin towards Shizuo’s tented boxers. “Take those off and I’ll show you.” Shizuo scoffs a breath but that’s all the protest he gives before he’s moving, rocking back over his knees and tightening his grip at Izaya’s hip to hold the other still as he slides his fingers back out of him. Izaya doesn’t whimper at the loss, as the absence of strain becomes a dull ache of need; he presses his lips together instead, holding himself to quiet as he pushes up off the bed so he can strip the last of his clothing off and free his legs to angle into an open invitation. Shizuo is pushing his boxers off his feet and to the floor before reaching for the buttons holding his shirt mostly-closed over his chest; he’s halfway through them when Izaya groans and reaches out to close his fingers around a fistful of the fabric.

“Leave it,” he says, and when Shizuo looks up at him Izaya smiles and shifts his leg wider. “Just come  _ here_, Shizu-chan.” Shizuo’s gaze drops, trailing the length of Izaya’s body down to the open angle of his thighs and the curve of his dark-flushed cock, and he drops his hand from his shirt to press a palm to the inside of Izaya’s knee and urge the other’s legs wider. Izaya finishes with Shizuo’s buttons as the other is coming up onto his knees and leaves the undone shirt to hang open between them so he can reach down and wrap his fingers around the straining heat of Shizuo’s cock. Shizuo groans, his hips jerk forward to thrust into Izaya’s hold, but he’s leaning in before Izaya can pull to urge him closer, tipping forward to press against his hand at Izaya’s thigh as he reaches down to cover Izaya’s hold with his own slippery palm. Izaya draws his fingers up, trailing sensation over Shizuo’s length as he gives way to the perfunctory pull Shizuo takes to slick over himself, and as Shizuo lines himself up Izaya is reaching up to wrap one hand around the back of Shizuo’s neck and slide the other up into the tangle of the other’s hair. 

Shizuo brings them into alignment, his hand pressing Izaya’s thigh up and his knees dipping hard into the mattress beneath them as he fits himself against Izaya’s entrance. Izaya tightens, his body flexing over an involuntary shudder of anticipation; but Shizuo stays still, his body poised taut over Izaya’s while he lingers as they are. Izaya’s expectation draws to a peak, crests over the edge into frustration, and then he goes slack against the sheets once more as he huffs irritation and frowns up at Shizuo. “What  _ now_?”

Shizuo jerks his head into a shake. His forehead is creased into that strange attention again as he looks at Izaya like he’s seeing him for the first time, as if he’s only just realized who it is he has lying across his sheets. “Nothing.”

Izaya drops his head back to the bed and offers a pointed groan. “Come  _ on_,” he says, and if his voice breaks over the edge of plausible deniability into overt begging he’s too tense with impatience-frayed want to even care. “I’ve been looking forward to this all  _ week_. You already made me come and find you at home, what else do you need me to  _ do _ Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo lets go a breath of overheated air. “Nothing,” he says, and as Izaya draws breath to protest this inane repetition Shizuo’s hold tightens, Shizuo’s legs flex, and every thought in Izaya’s head is pushed aside by the feel of Shizuo sliding forward into him. Izaya’s lashes flutter, his head angles back, and when his intended protest spills from his lips it takes the shape of a moan, low and hot and completely unrestrained. His toes curl, his fingers clutch, and as Shizuo’s cock fills him Izaya’s back arches in perfect synchronization as the whole of his body writes the statement of his appreciation curving into the air.

“ _Oh_ ,” Izaya groans, his hands pulling against Shizuo’s hair, his leg trembling against Shizuo’s unflinching hold, the whole of his body quivering with the pulsing heat of relief as Shizuo’s first thrust brings them fully together. “Oh,  _ fuck_, Shizu—Shizu-chan,  _ god_, I’ve missed you.”

Shizuo breathes out. “Izaya,” he says, and his voice sounds strange but Izaya is still trembling with too much heat to parse the other’s expression, and while he’s trying to blink his vision back to clarity Shizuo is curving in over him, his shoulders tilting forward to cast their shadow across Izaya beneath him. His elbow comes up over Izaya’s shoulder, his arm angles to brace Izaya’s head, and as his fingers work for a better grip beneath Izaya’s knee Izaya winds his arm around Shizuo’s neck, sliding his hand beneath the loose of the other’s unbuttoned shirt to press his palm to Shizuo’s shoulderblade while his other digs into a fist of yellow hair. He’s reaching for security, for stability enough to hold himself to the present, but even so when Shizuo draws back Izaya can feel his composure going brittle, and as the other’s hips come forward again Izaya’s voice breaks out of his hold, pouring into a note of sunbright pleasure as he quakes beneath the force of Shizuo pinning him to the bed.

Izaya blames the wait. He’s been wanting this for hours, tasting the strained ache of need on the back of his tongue since dawn stirred the heady rush of anticipation into his veins. Sex with Shizuo is never anything but overwhelming, but under the present circumstances every flex of Shizuo’s shoulders, every thrust of his hips, bears satisfaction for such an intense want that Izaya’s breathing is more moan than exhales, more hitching pleas than instruction. His fingernails are scraping at Shizuo’s back, digging in beneath the shift of the other’s shoulder as he moves, and in the haze that has eclipsed his senses it takes him longer than it should to realize that Shizuo is speaking with more clarity than the usual vague profanities that come with mindblowing sex.

“—should have realized” are the first words Izaya parses, spoken with soft certainty into the space between his shoulder and the curve of his ear. “It’s so  _ obvious_, I should have noticed before but I wasn’t looking for it, I didn’t think—and  _ you_, of all people.” Shizuo punctuates with a cough of a laugh and a buck of his hips that jolts Izaya out of himself for another moment, until he can gasp another breath and bring himself back to the present. “I always thought you  _ hated _ me.”

Izaya frowns at the ceiling of Shizuo’s bedroom, unclear on the trajectory of this conversation but very certain that it’s veering into dangerous territory. “What?” he asks, more loudly than Shizuo is talking in hopes of attaining something beyond breathless arousal on his tone. “What are you  _ talking _ about Shizu-chan, I  _ do _ hate you.”

Shizuo laughs again. “You don’t,” he says, and it’s not a question but a statement, a certainty as absolute as the rhythm of his hips, as unbreakable as the brace of his arm pressing against Izaya’s shoulder. “You don’t hate me, Izaya.”

“I do,” Izaya says, still staring at the ceiling as he feels the edges of the situation begin to blur into the start of stomach-dropping panic. His fingers flex against Shizuo’s back; he tightens his fist in Shizuo’s hair and makes himself pull pain-hard against the strands. “I despise you, Shizu-chan.”

“No,” Shizuo says, and it’s not an argument, he still just sounds  _ certain _ in that way that knots in Izaya’s chest to match the distant, achy pulse of arousal still trembling up his spine with each movement Shizuo takes over him. “You don’t.”

“Is this about the sex?” Izaya attempts. “Are you having some kind of romantic delusion,  _ really_?” He’s trying to angle himself into laughter, to find the sharp edge of a taunt in the back of his throat, but his hands feel shaky, his breathing is sticking, and what he means as amusement just comes out shrill. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Shizu-chan, but the fact that we fuck every now and then doesn’t mean we’re in a  _ relationship_.”

“It’s not every now and then,” Shizuo says. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Christmas. My birthday.” His shoulders flex to curve in over Izaya; his hips rock forward, his thrust punctuating his words before he has spoken them. “ _Your _ birthday.”

Izaya doesn’t have a reply for that, not at the end of a day spent wandering Ikebukuro and waiting, hoping,  _ expecting _ Shizuo to appear at any moment. He stays quiet instead, his hands in Shizuo’s hair and his gaze fixed blank at the ceiling over him as if his own silence can draw Shizuo into similar avoidance; but Shizuo is still moving, shifting over him and breathing hard at his shoulder, and after a moment he goes on speaking as if Izaya had responded in kind, or as if Izaya doesn’t  _ need _ to reply, as if he has already spilled truth in the wake of the irretrievable years that have gone before.

“You came looking for me.” Izaya feels himself tense, feels his thighs tighten with the instinct to run, but he’s on his back, and Shizuo is over him, and the single hand at his hip is gripping too tight for him to dream of breaking free, even if he could steel himself to retreat from the rise of certainty cresting in Shizuo’s voice. “I  _ knew _ you would, I knew you’d be in the city today, you’d be  _ expecting _ me to notice you and find you and—” His voice breaks off but his body finishes the sentence for him, his cock sliding forward to punctuate his speech with a flex of heat quivering through the whole length of Izaya beneath him. Izaya’s fingers clench in Shizuo’s hair, his breathing spills from his parted lips, but he doesn’t speak, just goes on staring at the ceiling while Shizuo pauses over him, their bodies so close that Izaya can feel the rhythm of Shizuo’s heartbeat carried into the solid weight inside him.

“You wanted to see me,” Shizuo says, his mouth against Izaya’s shoulder, his cock within Izaya’s body, his shoulders curving to a cage Izaya can’t remember how to make himself flinch from. “On your birthday.  _ For _ your birthday.” His hips tip forward to urge deeper into the connection between them. “That’s not hate, Izaya.”

“It is,” Izaya says, and his voice is ragged and his arm is trembling but he says it anyway because he can’t not, panic and arousal are rising in him in perfect tandem and he can no more stifle his denial than he can will away the curve of his cock straining towards the flat of his stomach. “It is. I do. I hate you, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo draws back, sliding away in a pull of aching loss before he strokes forward once more and knocks the breath from Izaya’s lips. “No.”

“It’s—” Izaya starts, struggling for traction, for speech, for the structure of the lie he has held for so long he has forgotten how to sketch of the outline of it around the shape of his life, his indulgences, his… “It’s not love.”

Shizuo’s head turns against his shoulder. “Izaya,” he says, his voice low and dark and shadowed against Izaya’s hair. “I didn’t say it was.”

There is a moment of stillness. Shizuo has paused again, has brought them to a stop so Izaya can feel the strain of his body throbbing around Shizuo’s cock without the distraction of movement, without the pull of friction. It’s too much, as it always is, a pressure impossible for Izaya to bear, impossible for him to live without; and then Shizuo shifts his head, his mouth brushes Izaya’s jaw, and he rocks back into the slow deliberation of a thrust like an argument.

“You don’t hate me,” Shizuo says. “You come looking for me, you know where I live, you wait for me for  _ hours _ in the hopes I’ll show up at your door.” He’s continuing his movement, his hips pulling away before thrusting forward with sharp, insistent force that drives his cock fully within Izaya on a single action, and Izaya can’t breathe, and he can’t run, and he can’t deny the perfect, unclouded truth of Shizuo’s words striking through him like a blow.

“You want me,” Shizuo continues. “I’ve spent every Christmas for  _ years _ with you, seen you on every birthday since I was twenty.”

“For sex,” Izaya attempts. “To fuck me, it’s just—”

“It’s not,” Shizuo says. “Not when you wait for me all day. Not when you look forward to it all week. Not when you look at me the way you do.” He draws a breath and Izaya can feel the weight of it crushing at his own chest, like Shizuo’s inhale is pulling the air from his lips, from his lungs, from his existence itself. “You  _ lov_—”

“ _No_ ,” Izaya gasps, half-strangled, all-desperate, clutching at Shizuo’s hair and digging his knees into Shizuo’s hips as if he can push away by holding on, like he can drag Shizuo down into the distraction of need that Izaya has spent years telling himself will be safe enough, that was never anything like truly secure. “No, I hate you, Shizu-chan.”

“You don’t,” Shizuo says. “You—”

“ _You _ hate me,” Izaya says, preemptive rejection of whatever Shizuo is about to say, turning away from the dawn before it breaks blinding and brilliant across the horizon of his own denial. “You’ve  _ always _ hated me, this is just a quick fuck for you.”

“Izaya—”

“I’m not important” and Izaya’s hands are shaking in Shizuo’s hair, there is a knot in his throat and a burn at his eyes but he can’t stop talking, can’t stop shoving desperate resistance at the flood of insight even as he’s being swept away. “You didn’t like me from the  _ beginning_, you—”

“ _Izaya_.” Shizuo’s voice snaps hard as a blow but it’s not the sound that startles Izaya into silence; it’s the motion, as Shizuo pushes up onto an elbow to lift his head from Izaya’s shoulder and reaches to brace a hand at the back of Izaya’s head and glare down at him. Izaya presses his lips together, aware only in the echo how much truth he’s spilled with his frantic speech, but he can’t harden his face into taunting amusement, can’t call up the mask that he usually wears with such ease. It’s gone, dropped somewhere along with the weight of his coat, and now Shizuo is staring at him and he’s  _ seeing _ and there is nothing Izaya can do to stop him.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Shizuo’s palm is cradling the back of Izaya’s head, his fingers splayed wide to a casual grip that Izaya can feel weighting the shivering awareness of latent danger down his spine. But Shizuo isn’t tightening his hold, isn’t scowling himself into deadly temper; he’s just looking, gazing at Izaya’s face turned up to him, and Izaya thinks there might be more danger in that than in any part of the coiled strength in Shizuo’s muscles and bones.

“Don’t talk,” Shizuo says, finally. His hand shifts at Izaya’s head, sliding down to cradle the soft place at the very back of Izaya’s skull. Izaya draws a breath through his nose, hears the hiss of anticipation on the sound, but he doesn’t open his mouth, and Shizuo doesn’t wait before he moves again to rock himself back into the rhythm they briefly lost. Izaya’s throat tightens, his chest flexes, and when his hands drag at Shizuo’s hair it’s with the force of the heat rising unabated in him with complete disregard for the knot of panic that has tied itself within his chest.

There is no space for dissembling. Shizuo is too close, too near, too  _ much_; the only defense Izaya has ever had was Shizuo’s distraction, using Shizuo’s own pleasure as a means to draw his attention away from watching Izaya’s expression, and the hand cradling Izaya’s head is proof enough that that is shattered past hope of recovery. Shizuo is staring at him, his eyes dark and focused with absolute intent on Izaya’s face as he watches his movement flush Izaya’s cheeks and tremble in his throat; and Izaya is going hotter in turn, as even in this extremity of recognition Shizuo’s focus sears all his body with the intensity of responsiveness. There is no one else, there is  _ nothing _ else in this moment, Shizuo is turning the full force of his undivided attention to watching Izaya as he moves in him, and in the face of defeat Izaya’s denial turns to the reckless welcome of arms stretched open into a fall. His knees fall open, his ankles catch behind Shizuo’s slow-thrusting hips, and as Shizuo works a rhythm into him Izaya’s awareness narrows, throwing over the future and the past and the world to fix to this place, this moment, this single point of Shizuo with him, right now, entirely.

Izaya’s given over the press of his closed mouth for the edge of teeth digging into his lip, holding back the pressure in his throat with the same desperate strength with which he’s fisting at Shizuo’s hair to hold himself still as his legs quake, as his back curves, as his body shapes itself into the perfect arc of rising pleasure; but his eyes are open, his gaze locked in place by the force of Shizuo’s on him, by the absolute intent that holds him where he lies even as Shizuo’s breathing rasps into audible strain and his skin flushes into heat. They are caught by each other, fixed in place by their shared attention; and then Shizuo’s throat works over a swallow, and his hand shifts, his fingers skimming across Izaya’s body to his belly. His finger dips at Izaya’s navel, his thumb reaches out into open space, and then his grip is finding Izaya’s cock and Izaya’s jaw softens, his lip sliding free of the brace of his teeth as his throat opens up on a moan of helpless, demanding need. His hips jerk, bucking up towards Shizuo’s hand with reflexive disregard of the way this pulls around the heat moving inside him, and Shizuo lets go a breath and closes his hand around Izaya’s cock.

There is no restraint. Izaya’s self-defense was futile before they began, before the hand at his head, maybe even before he rapped his knuckles against Shizuo’s door; now he cannot even make a gesture towards it, not with Shizuo’s palm cradling the back of his head and Shizuo’s hold beginning to stroke over his cock in counterpoint to the thrust of the heat driving into him. Izaya isn’t pulling at Shizuo’s hair: he’s stroking it, his hands gone slack and gentle as his trembling fingers wind into the gold waves and his thumb slides out to caress Shizuo’s cheek. He’s panting, seizing what breath he can from the force rising up his spine, into his chest, up the flex of his throat; and Shizuo’s fingers tighten, his wrist twists, and Izaya’s orgasm crests up and over him. His back arches, his body curving itself off the bed as his mouth opens, as his breath catches; and then he’s breaking, he’s coming, his body is spasming and his cock is pulsing and he’s sobbing a moan that sounds like  _ Shizuo _ even over the heat ringing in his ears. It’s a sob, a plea, a surrender, and over him Shizuo groans, and curves in, and moves into him with sudden force. Izaya jerks, helpless to his response to such an excess of sensation, but Shizuo is letting him go to clutch at his hip with sticky fingers, and there is an edge of desperation in the sound of the breathing dragging across Izaya’s shoulder.

“God,” Shizuo says, rough and raw and needy. “ _Izaya._ ” There’s nothing more to it, as if Izaya’s name is the statement, is argument and explanation at once; and then Shizuo hisses a breath that Izaya can feel ripple tension along his thighs, and he jolts forward to spill heat into Izaya trembling beneath him. Izaya lies still, spread across the sheets of Shizuo’s bed and still shaking with aftershocks as he feels Shizuo coming into him, and he slides his hands through Shizuo’s hair and wonders, distantly, what comes next.

There is silence for a moment. Shizuo is breathing hard against Izaya’s shoulder, his body tipped forward into the slack weight of relief for these first few post-orgasmic moments; Izaya lies still beneath him, feeling his heart racing with unabated speed in his chest as arousal eases smoothly into panic without a grounding point, with nowhere to go. Shizuo’s arm around his shoulder is a cage, the hand at the back of his neck a leash; but Izaya lacks the strength to run in any case. His body is trembling with heat, still weak and shaky with pleasure, and there is nowhere he can go to escape the truth that Shizuo has forced into such painful clarity. There is only here, now, this moment, while Shizuo lingers in afterglow and Izaya waits for the verdict; and then Shizuo takes a deeper breath, and the moment has passed even before he pushes up onto his elbow to look down at Izaya again.

Izaya meets Shizuo’s gaze. It’s a strange indulgence, the surrender to a reality he has never before let himself acknowledge: to look at Shizuo’s face, to meet the steady dark of his gaze without dragging up the armor of a smirk, or a taunt, or a laugh. It makes Izaya feel impossibly naked, stripped down to an intimacy far greater than that of Shizuo still pressing inside him. Shizuo just looks at him for a long time, his gaze wandering Izaya’s face like he’s learning the details of it while his hand clasps gentle at the back of the other’s head; and then his thumb slides out to press to the back of Izaya’s ear and steady there as he speaks.

“You don’t hate me.”

It is a statement and not a question, but Shizuo still waits while Izaya swallows his throat clear enough to speak. “No.”

“You like me,” Shizuo says, still certain. “That’s what this has all been about, all this time. You—”

He hesitates, forehead creasing, mouth tightening on the word Izaya can almost hear, can almost taste, can feel thrumming electric in the space between them. Izaya swallows again, wills himself to speak. “Say it.”

It’s hardly a whisper, barely audible at all, but Shizuo’s expression softens, clearing like stormclouds evaporating from a dark sky. His thumb behind Izaya’s ear eases its pressure, slides back into not-quite-a-caress. “You love me.”

Izaya doesn’t say anything: doesn’t offer the futile denial, doesn’t provide the desperation of the agreement Shizuo doesn’t need to hear. He just stays still, his legs around Shizuo’s hips, his hands in Shizuo’s hair, his gaze on Shizuo’s face, and over him Shizuo draws a deep, endless breath before sighing into the weight of relief.

“Oh,” he says. His little finger trails down the back of Izaya’s neck; when he lifts his thumb to draw across the other’s hair again there is no mistaking the affection on the gesture, any more than there is dismissing the curve of the smile starting at his mouth. Izaya watches him as Shizuo leans down, watches Shizuo bridge the distance between them, and when Shizuo’s mouth finds his his lips are already soft with surrender. Shizuo kisses him for a long moment, lingering over the invitation of Izaya’s parted lips without pressing for more before he lifts his head to breathe against Izaya’s mouth.

“I don’t hate you either,” he says. Izaya blinks, caught off-guard by the impossibility of the words, and Shizuo leans back in to bring them together once more. His tongue parts Izaya’s lips, his thumb strokes behind Izaya’s ear; and Izaya shuts his eyes, and slides his fingers deeper into Shizuo’s hair, and opens his mouth for whatever use Shizuo wishes to make of their newfound honesty.


End file.
